It's only a game...
Who: Sherlock Holmes, OPEN
What: Try your luck, win a prize.
When: Day 2, 9:30am until he’s allowed to leave.
Where: Spill the Milk carnival game
Rating: PG for now
Status: Incomplete



Holmes could smell bitter garbage and damp cobblestones. His feet ached from walking what must have been an impossible distance. Before him, the alleyway stretched on and on, dim and foggy in the icy London night. The buildings on either side of him were getting taller and closer as he walked along, until they fused into high brick walls. Holmes carried on but the road began to narrow. Closer and closer, the walls closed in until he decided he’d rather turn back than carry on further into the claustrophobic pathway. When he turned around his heart gave a terrible jump in his chest. Before him was a dead end, the wall a mere arm’s length away. He turned back- another dead end. He spun and pressed his hands along the cold, rough walls that were now closed around him like a box. He looked up at the black sky, trying to comprehend this impossible trap. Everything went dark.

Then he opened his eyes.

The world around him wobbled into focus and Holmes was entirely disoriented. Dirt and pebbles rained down the back of his collar as he sat up on the ground in a strange tent. It was open on one side, with an overhanging roof and a waist high wall of canvass to keep people from walking in at the front. Towards the back were three tables with 6, pyramid-stacked, tin milk bottles on each surface. Above those were nets of stuffed animals; bears, horses, turtles, and ducks in bright colors and a sign that stated:

“Knock all the bottles outside the ring and win a prize, trade in three for a larger prize!”

Indeed, there were 4 varying sizes of toys, culminating with a massive version of each of the animals dangling towards the front. Holmes stared at all this, absolutely baffled, and briefly pondering what manner of drug he may have taken to cause such a strange vision. He went to stand and noted a shackle around his left ankle. Attached to the shackle was a long chain leading to one of the heavy poles that held up the front of the tent. Holmes grasped the chain and gave it a tug but it was unyielding. He dusted himself off and moved to the front of the tent. By the position of the sun it was still morning.

“Hello?” He called, peering out of the tent. “Watson?” What on earth was he doing here? He’d fallen asleep in the house, near Watson. Now he didn’t even know if he was in the same town. Perhaps tomorrow he’d actually wake up where he’d fallen asleep for a change.